Here's to You
by secondmezzanine
Summary: He buys her celebratory shots, because he doesn't know what else to do. Takes place immediately following 4.03. Barney/Robin.


**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I own nothing.  
**Spoilers**: Basic plot through 4.03, "I Heart NJ." (I hate spoilers!)

**Author's Notes**: I've been dabbling in fanfiction since I was a teen but this is the first time I've ever posted anything I've written myself. Let's see how it goes. :)

A few hours after she announces that she's moving to Japan, the others trickle out of McClaren's and head home, but she stays with him. So he drags her over to the bar and buys her a celebratory shot. Then another. And another. And they're laughing because every time the glass is set before her, she shakes her head, and he watches her hair brush across her shoulders, and he winds up taking the drink himself.

"To you," he says on the first shot, lifting the glass high in the air and knocking it back with a smile that she doesn't notice is tense at the corners. "To taking chances, right?" The second shot hurts a little; he swallows it too hard and coughs and smacks the glass back onto the counter with a mixture of triumph and defeat. "To you!" They're laughing again, their heads bent together as they lean on the bar. His tie falls onto her knee and he sees her fingertips reach out instinctively to graze the edge. "Another for the lady," he calls out blindly, his eyes meeting hers as he waves a hand at the bartender, and she just laughs again.

On the third shot (which he swipes from the bar before she even has a moment to refuse it again), the band that had tightened across his chest the moment she said _Tokyo_ began to dissipate. Numbness. That's what he needed. An arctic-cold numbing for the ache, because the only alternative was to touch her somehow, to touch the hand on his tie, the soft curve of her jaw, the tiny freckle peeking out where her shirt met her collarbone.

He doesn't remember if he orders more alcohol, doesn't know if he's drunk or just intoxicated on this haze of disbelief and perfume that he can't seem to shake. But somehow she's brought him home to his apartment, just a friend holding up another friend, a bro for a second bro. And he doesn't know what happened between the slosh of alcohol, the sight of that freckle, and this moment. "To you," he's saying again as she drops his keys back into his jacket pocket and helps him stumble through his apartment door.

"To me," she agrees good-naturedly, patting the wall for the light switch. "Come on, Mr. Celebration. Sleepy-time." She can't find the switch, but he's fumbled blindly through the apartment enough times not to need it, so he moves toward his bedroom. She can't tell if his arm around her shoulder is there because he might fall down or because he wants her to come in with him, but she only hesitates for a moment. He'll be out soon, she thinks. Then she'll find a light switch.

The glow of a streetlamp streams through his bedroom window, enough for her eyes to adjust as he sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at her. "Here," she says, and begins to pull his jacket off. Only one arm is out of his sleeve when the action is suddenly a little too reminiscent of _that night_ and they both freeze.

She pulls away, steps backward. "Okay then?" He's looking at her in the dark and the laughter has stopped and it suddenly hits her that she's really leaving, really going to Tokyo, and every suit she sees there is going to remind her of this moment.

He knows he should kick off his shoes and lie down and thank her and feign unconsciousness so that she'll leave and he can finally think straight. But all he can do is sit here like an idiot with his jacket half-off and look at her. Her hair seems rumpled, and she's shifting her weight back and forth. She's biting her lip slightly, which normally he'd find provocative but now all he sees is a girl who looks… young. Afraid, even. Like maybe she wants to say something about leaving New York but she can't.

"You're okay?" she repeats, stepping back again.

He wants to ask her what's wrong, why she looks like she's about to cry, but he smells her perfume again and all normal thought process is crippled. "To Tokyo," he smiles, and shakes off the jacket, kicks off his shoes. He flops down on the sheets, closes his eyes, waits for the sound of a door closing. He waits and waits. He waits long enough to grow annoyed, because suddenly the alcohol is a memory and the band constricting his chest is back and he can still feel her standing there.

He's out, she thinks. He's out but she's still trying to get herself to leave. She's indulging a desire that she's been suppressing since _that night_, that desire to look at him and remember and acknowledge that it happened and she had liked it. He sighs in his sleep, curled up on his stomach with his arms over his head as if protecting himself. She takes a step. It's toward the door but toward him, as well.

It can't hurt to think about it for a moment, she rationalizes. She's leaving New York. There's no need to don her armor anymore. There will be a whole ocean, a whole continent between them to protect her. The thought is meant to comfort her but somehow her knees feel shaky. She should have taken one of the shots he bought her, she thinks. Liquid courage.

She wonders what his reaction would be if she climbed over him to the vacant side of the bed, lay down and watched him sleep. _What, like bros do_? She shakes the thought away. His shirt has come untucked. She wonders how often he has to send his clothes out for ironing. Whether he even owns any clothes that could be worn as pajamas, or if he just sleeps without a shirt.

_I'm crazy. Tokyo? _The word is hanging in the hair. "To Tokyo," he had said. An ocean and a continent.

She's bracing herself to either bolt for the subway or to sit down next to him for a moment (both prospects make her stomach twist a bit) when he speaks. "You should go," he says, the sound muffled by the pillow. His voice is impatient.

"Oh—!" She jumps, feels herself flushing in the dark. "Sorry, I'm—I'm going, I was just looking for the, uh…"

"To Tokyo," he clarifies, his face still hidden. "Go to Tokyo." He can't look at her.

She's going to cry suddenly and can't pinpoint why, so she runs. The bedroom door swings shut too loudly behind her and she winces, shuffling her way down the hall. She knocks her knee against the couch. "_Damn it._" Where is the light switch, for god's sake? She stumbles again in the darkness and suddenly his hand is on her shoulder.

She sucks her breath in, startled, and he laughs softly as he turns her. It hurts him to laugh. It hurts to touch her without _touching her_ so he pulls her into a hug, wraps his arms around her neck and tugs her to him.

She hates him suddenly, hates him for knowing she's upset even though she doesn't know why—and for knowing her that well despite the fact he's only half-conscious—hates him for touching her without kissing her, for messing up all her plans. "I've been dreaming about this job," she insists, more to herself than him, and he nods. She gives in and wraps her arms around him, presses her forehead into his shoulder.

He can't think what to say. Can't think at all, really, when he can smell her shampoo, feel her breath on his neck. So he says "_Congratulations_" in a voice that seems stupid and casual and doesn't match the situation now at all, and forces himself to let go of her. He lightly thumps her back a couple of times, tries to turn the embrace into a bro thing. She takes longer to let go, but forces a casual smile and a whispered thanks.

She's turning for the door when he reaches out with his index finger and touches a tiny spot on her collarbone. There's no way he can see it in the dark, she thinks, but she has a freckle there. Before she can even throw him a questioning look, he's halfway down the hall again and she's alone by the couch.

She finds the light switch when she's reaching out for the doorknob. "Here's to you," she whispers, and closes the door behind her.


End file.
